Chapter III: Part 3

He took up ’is chest and marched downstairs with it, and about ’arf an hour arterward the landlady’s ’usband came up and set ’em free. As soon as they’d got the use of their legs back they started out to look for Sam, but they didn’t find ’im for nearly a year, and as for Bill, they never set eyes on ’im again.

LAWYER QUINCE

Lawyer Quince, so called by his neighbours in Little Haven from his readiness at all times to place at their disposal the legal lore he had acquired from a few old books while following his useful occupation of making boots, sat in a kind of wooden hutch at the side of his cottage plying his trade. The London coach had gone by in a cloud of dust some three hours before, and since then the wide village street had slumbered almost undisturbed in the sunshine.

Hearing footsteps and the sound of voices raised in dispute caused him to look up from his work. Mr. Rose, of Holly Farm, Hogg, the miller, and one or two neighbours of lesser degree appeared to be in earnest debate over some point of unusual difficulty.

Lawyer Quince took a pinch of snuff and bent to his work again. Mr. Rose was one of the very few who openly questioned his legal knowledge, and his gibes concerning it were only too frequent. Moreover, he had a taste for practical joking, which to a grave man was sometimes offensive.

“Well, here he be,” said Mr. Hogg to the farmer, as the group halted in front of the hutch. “Now ask Lawyer Quince and see whether I ain’t told you true. I’m willing to abide by what he says.”

Mr. Quince put down his hammer and, brushing a little snuff from his coat, leaned back in his chair and eyed them with grave confidence.

“It’s like this,” said the farmer. “Young Pascoe has been hanging round after my girl Celia, though I told her she wasn’t to have nothing to do with him. Half an hour ago I was going to put my pony in its stable when I see a young man sitting there waiting.”

“Well?” said Mr. Quince, after a pause.

“He’s there yet,” said the farmer. “I locked him in, and Hogg here says that I’ve got the right to keep him locked up there as long as I like. I say it’s agin the law, but Hogg he says no. I say his folks would come and try to break open my stable, but Hogg says if they do I can have the law of ’em for damaging my property.”

“So you can,” interposed Mr. Hogg, firmly. “You see whether Lawyer Quince don’t say I’m right.”

Mr. Quince frowned, and in order to think more deeply closed his eyes. Taking advantage of this three of his auditors, with remarkable unanimity, each closed one.

“It’s your stable,” said Mr. Quince, opening his eyes and speaking with great deliberation, “and you have a right to lock it up when you like.”

“There you are,” said Mr. Hogg; “what did I tell you?”

“If anybody’s there that’s got no business there, that’s his look-out,” continued Mr. Quince. “You didn’t induce him to go in?”

“Certainly not,” replied the farmer.

“I told him he can keep him there as long as he likes,” said the jubilant Mr. Hogg, “and pass him in bread and water through the winder; it’s got bars to it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Quince, nodding, “he can do that. As for his folks knocking the place about, if you like to tie up one or two of them nasty, savage dogs of yours to the stable, well, it’s your stable, and you can fasten your dogs to it if you like. And you’ve generally got a man about the yard.”

Mr. Hogg smacked his thigh in ecstasy.

“But—” began the farmer.

“That’s the law,” said the autocratic Mr. Quince, sharply. “O’ course, if you think you know more about it than I do, I’ve nothing more to say.”

“I don’t want to do nothing I could get into trouble for,” murmured Mr. Rose.

“You can’t get into trouble by doing as I tell you,” said the shoemaker, impatiently. “However, to be quite on the safe side, if I was in your place I should lose the key.”

“Lose the key?” said the farmer, blankly.

“Lose the key,” repeated the shoemaker, his eyes watering with intense appreciation of his own resourcefulness. “You can find it any time you want to, you know. Keep him there till he promises to give up your daughter, and tell him that as soon as he does you’ll have a hunt for the key.”

Mr. Rose regarded him with what the shoemaker easily understood to be speechless admiration.

“I—I’m glad I came to you,” said the farmer, at last.

“You’re welcome,” said the shoemaker, loftily. “I’m always ready to give advice to them as require it.”

“And good advice it is,” said the smiling Mr. Hogg. “Why don’t you behave yourself, Joe Garnham?” he demanded, turning fiercely on a listener.

Mr. Garnham, whose eyes were watering with emotion, attempted to explain, but, becoming hysterical, thrust a huge red handkerchief to his mouth and was led away by a friend. Mr. Quince regarded his departure with mild disdain.

“Little things please little minds,” he remarked.

“So they do,” said Mr. Hogg. “I never thought—What’s the matter with you, George Askew?”

Mr. Askew, turning his back on him, threw up his hands with a helpless gesture and followed in the wake of Mr. Garnham. Mr. Hogg appeared to be about to apologise, and then suddenly altering his mind made a hasty and unceremonious exit, accompanied by the farmer.

Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative pinch of snuff, resumed his work. The sun went down and the light faded slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears. It was clear that the story of the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven.

He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame, removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the house. Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his onslaught.

“We won’t wait for Ned,” said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of ale and placed it by her husband’s elbow.

Mr. Quince nodded and filled his glass.

“You’ve been giving more advice, I hear,” said Mrs. Quince.

Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again.

“It wouldn’t make no difference to young Pascoe’s chance, anyway,” said Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully.

Mr. Quince continued his labours. “Why?” he inquired, at last.

His wife smiled and tossed her head.

“Young Pascoe’s no chance against our Ned,” she said, swelling with maternal pride.

“Eh?” said the shoemaker, laying down his knife and fork. “Our Ned?”

“They are as fond of each other as they can be,” said Mrs. Quince, “though I don’t suppose Farmer Rose’ll care for it; not but what our Ned’s as good as he is.”

“Is Ned up there now?” demanded the shoemaker, turning pale, as the mirthful face of Mr. Garnham suddenly occurred to him.

“Sure to be,” tittered his wife. “And to think o’ poor young Pascoe shut up in that stable while he’s courting Celia!”

Mr. Quince took up his knife and fork again, but his appetite had gone. Whoever might be paying attention to Miss Rose at that moment he felt quite certain that it was not Mr. Ned Quince, and he trembled with anger as he saw the absurd situation into which the humorous Mr. Rose had led him. For years Little Haven had accepted his decisions as final and boasted of his sharpness to neighbouring hamlets, and many a cottager had brought his boots to be mended a whole week before their time for the sake of an interview.

He moved his chair from the table and smoked a pipe. Then he rose, and putting a couple of formidable law-books under his arm, walked slowly down the road in the direction of Holly Farm.

The road was very quiet and the White Swan, usually full at this hour, was almost deserted, but if any doubts as to the identity of the prisoner lingered in his mind they were speedily dissipated by the behaviour of the few customers who crowded to the door to see him pass.

A hum of voices fell on his ear as he approached the farm; half the male and a goodly proportion of the female population of Little Haven were leaning against the fence or standing in little knots in the road, while a few of higher social status stood in the farm-yard itself.

“Come down to have a look at the prisoner?” inquired the farmer, who was standing surrounded by a little group of admirers.

“I came down to see you about that advice I gave you this afternoon,” said Mr. Quince.

“Ah!” said the other.

“I was busy when you came,” continued Mr. Quince, in a voice of easy unconcern, “and I gave you advice from memory. Looking up the subject after you’d gone I found that I was wrong.”

“You don’t say so?” said the farmer, uneasily. “If I’ve done wrong I’m only doing what you told me I could do.”

“Mistakes will happen with the best of us,” said the shoemaker, loudly, for the benefit of one or two murmurers. “I’ve known a man to marry a woman for her money before now and find out afterward that she hadn’t got any.”

One unit of the group detached itself and wandered listlessly toward the gate.

“Well, I hope I ain’t done nothing wrong,” said Mr. Rose, anxiously. “You gave me the advice; there’s men here as can prove it. I don’t want to do nothing agin the law. What had I better do?”

“Well, if I was you,” said Mr. Quince, concealing his satisfaction with difficulty, “I should let him out at once and beg his pardon, and say you hope he’ll do nothing about it. I’ll put in a word for you if you like with old Pascoe.”

Mr. Rose coughed and eyed him queerly.

“You’re a Briton,” he said, warmly. “I’ll go and let him out at once.”

He strode off to the stable, despite the protests of Mr. Hogg, and, standing by the door, appeared to be deep in thought; then he came back slowly, feeling in his pockets as he walked.

“William,” he said, turning toward Mr. Hogg, “I s’pose you didn’t happen to notice where I put that key?”

“That I didn’t,” said Mr. Hogg, his face clearing suddenly.

“I had it in my hand not half an hour ago,” said the agitated Mr. Rose, thrusting one hand into his trouser-pocket and groping. “It can’t be far.”

Mr. Quince attempted to speak, and, failing, blew his nose violently.

“My memory ain’t what it used to be,” said the farmer. “Howsomever, I dare say it’ll turn up in a day or two.”

“You—you’d better force the door,” suggested Mr. Quince, struggling to preserve an air of judicial calm.

“No, no,” said Mr. Rose; “I ain’t going to damage my property like that. I can lock my stable-door and unlock it when I like; if people get in there as have no business there, it’s their look-out.”

“That’s law,” said Mr. Hogg; “I’ll eat my hat if it ain’t.”

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve really lost the key?” demanded Mr. Quince, eyeing the farmer sternly.

“Seems like it,” said Mr. Rose. “However, he won’t come to no hurt. I’ll put in some bread and water for him, same as you advised me to.”

Mr. Quince mastered his wrath by an effort, and with no sign of discomposure moved away without making any reference to the identity of the unfortunate in the stable.

“Good-night,” said the farmer, “and thank you for coming and giving me the fresh advice. It ain’t everybody that ’ud ha’ taken the trouble. If I hadn’t lost that key——”

The shoemaker scowled, and with the two fat books under his arm passed the listening neighbours with the air of a thoughtful man out for an evening stroll. Once inside his house, however, his manner changed, the attitude of Mrs. Quince demanding, at any rate, a show of concern.

“It’s no good talking,” he said at last. “Ned shouldn’t have gone there, and as for going to law about it, I sha’n’t do any such thing; I should never hear the end of it. I shall just go on as usual, as if nothing had happened, and when Rose is tired of keeping him there he must let him out. I’ll bide my time.”

Mrs. Quince subsided into vague mutterings as to what she would do if she were a man, coupled with sundry aspersions upon the character, looks, and family connections of Farmer Rose, which somewhat consoled her for being what she was.

“He has always made jokes about your advice,” she said at length, “and now everybody’ll think he’s right. I sha’n’t be able to look anybody in the face. I should have seen through it at once if it had been me. I’m going down to give him a bit o’ my mind.”

“You stay where you are,” said Mr. Quince, sharply, “and, mind, you are not to talk about it to anybody. Farmer Rose ’ud like nothing better than to see us upset about it. I ain’t done with him yet. You wait.”

Mrs. Quince, having no option, waited, but nothing happened. The following day found Ned Quince still a prisoner, and, considering the circumstances, remarkably cheerful. He declined point-blank to renounce his preposterous attentions, and said that, living on the premises, he felt half like a son-in-law already. He also complimented the farmer upon the quality of his bread.

The next morning found him still unsubdued, and, under interrogation from the farmer, he admitted that he liked it, and said that the feeling of being at home was growing upon him.

“If you’re satisfied, I am,” said Mr. Rose, grimly. “I’ll keep you here till you promise; mind that.”

“It’s a nobleman’s life,” said Ned, peeping through the window, “and I’m beginning to like you as much as my real father.”

“I don’t want none o’ yer impudence,” said the farmer, reddening.

“You’ll like me better when you’ve had me here a little longer,” said Ned; “I shall grow on you. Why not be reasonable and make up your mind to it? Celia and I have.”

“I’m going to send Celia away on Saturday,” said Mr. Rose; “make yourself happy and comfortable in here till then. If you’d like another crust o’ bread or an extra half pint o’ water you’ve only got to mention it. When she’s gone I’ll have a hunt for that key, so as you can go back to your father and help him to understand his law-books better.”

He strode off with the air of a conqueror, and having occasion to go to the village looked in at the shoemaker’s window as he passed and smiled broadly. For years Little Haven had regarded Mr. Quince with awe, as being far too dangerous a man for the lay mind to tamper with, and at one stroke the farmer had revealed the hollowness of his pretensions. Only that morning the wife of a labourer had called and asked him to hurry the mending of a pair of boots. She was a voluble woman, and having overcome her preliminary nervousness more than hinted that if he gave less time to the law and more to his trade it would be better for himself and everybody else.

Miss Rose accepted her lot in a spirit of dutiful resignation, and on Saturday morning after her father’s admonition not to forget that the coach left the White Swan at two sharp, set off to pay a few farewell visits. By half-past twelve she had finished, and Lawyer Quince becoming conscious of a shadow on his work looked up to see her standing before the window. He replied to a bewitching smile with a short nod and became intent upon his work again.

For a short time Celia lingered, then to his astonishment she opened the gate and walked past the side of the house into the garden. With growing astonishment he observed her enter his tool-shed and close the door behind her.

For ten minutes he worked on and then, curiosity getting the better of him, he walked slowly to the tool-shed and, opening the door a little way, peeped in. It was a small shed, crowded with agricultural implements. The floor was occupied by an upturned wheelbarrow, and sitting on the barrow, with her soft cheek leaning against the wall, sat Miss Rose fast asleep. Mr. Quince coughed several times, each cough being louder than the last, and then, treading softly, was about to return to the workshop when the girl stirred and muttered in her sleep. At first she was unintelligible, then he distinctly caught the words “idiot” and “blockhead.”

“She’s dreaming of somebody,” said Mr. Quince to himself with conviction. “Wonder who it is?”

“Can’t see—a thing—under—his—nose,” murmured the fair sleeper.

“Celia!” said Mr. Quince, sharply. “_Celia!_”

He took a hoe from the wall and prodded her gently with the handle. A singularly vicious expression marred the soft features, but that was all.

“_Ce-lia!_” said the shoemaker, who feared sun-stroke.

“Fancy if he—had—a moment’s common sense,” murmured Celia, drowsily, “and locked—the door.”

Lawyer Quince dropped the hoe with a clatter and stood regarding her open-mouthed. He was a careful man with his property, and the stout door boasted a good lock. He sped to the house on tip-toe, and taking the key from its nail on the kitchen dresser returned to the shed, and after another puzzled glance at the sleeping girl locked her in.

For half an hour he sat in silent enjoyment of the situation—enjoyment which would have been increased if he could have seen Mr. Rose standing at the gate of Holly Farm, casting anxious glances up and down the road. Celia’s luggage had gone down to the White Swan, and an excellent cold luncheon was awaiting her attention in the living-room.

Half-past one came and no Celia, and five minutes later two farm labourers and a boy lumbered off in different directions in search of the missing girl, with instructions that she was to go straight to the White Swan to meet the coach. The farmer himself walked down to the inn, turning over in his mind a heated lecture composed for the occasion, but the coach came and, after a cheerful bustle and the consumption of sundry mugs of beer, sped on its way again.

He returned home in silent consternation, seeking in vain for a satisfactory explanation of the mystery. For a robust young woman to disappear in broad daylight and leave no trace behind her was extraordinary. Then a sudden sinking sensation in the region of the waistcoat and an idea occurred simultaneously.

He walked down to the village again, the idea growing steadily all the way. Lawyer Quince was hard at work, as usual, as he passed. He went by the window three times and gazed wistfully at the cottage. Coming to the conclusion at last that two heads were better than one in such a business, he walked on to the mill and sought Mr. Hogg.

“That’s what it is,” said the miller, as he breathed his suspicions. “I thought all along Lawyer Quince would have the laugh of you. He’s wonderful deep. Now, let’s go to work cautious like. Try and look as if nothing had happened.”

Mr. Rose tried.

“Try agin,” said the miller, with some severity. “Get the red out o’ your face and let your eyes go back and don’t look as though you’re going to bite somebody.”

Mr. Rose swallowed an angry retort, and with an attempt at careless ease sauntered up the road with the miller to the shoemaker’s. Lawyer Quince was still busy, and looked up inquiringly as they passed before him.

“I s’pose,” said the diplomatic Mr. Hogg, who was well acquainted with his neighbour’s tidy and methodical habits—“I s’pose you couldn’t lend me your barrow for half an hour? The wheel’s off mine.”

Mr. Quince hesitated, and then favoured him with a glance intended to remind him of his scurvy behaviour three days before.

“You can have it,” he said at last, rising.

Mr. Hogg pinched his friend in his excitement, and both watched Mr. Quince with bated breath as he took long, slow strides toward the tool-shed. He tried the door and then went into the house, and even before his reappearance both gentlemen knew only too well what was about to happen. Red was all too poor a word to apply to Mr. Rose’s countenance as the shoemaker came toward them, feeling in his waistcoat pocket with hooked fingers and thumb, while Mr. Hogg’s expressive features were twisted into an appearance of rosy appreciation.

“Did you want the barrow very particular?” inquired the shoemaker, in a regretful voice.

“Very particular,” said Mr. Hogg.

Mr. Quince went through the performance of feeling in all his pockets, and then stood meditatively rubbing his chin.

“The door’s locked,” he said, slowly, “and what I’ve done with that there key——”

“You open that door,” vociferated Mr. Rose, “else I’ll break it in. You’ve got my daughter in that shed and I’m going to have her out.”

“Your daughter?” said Mr. Quince, with an air of faint surprise. “What should she be doing in my shed?”

“You let her out,” stormed Mr. Rose, trying to push past him.

“Don’t trespass on my premises,” said Lawyer Quince, interposing his long, gaunt frame. “If you want that door opened you’ll have to wait till my boy Ned comes home. I expect he knows where to find the key.”

Mr. Rose’s hands fell limply by his side and his tongue, turning prudish, refused its office. He turned and stared at Mr. Hogg in silent consternation.

“Never known him to be beaten yet,” said that admiring weather-cock.

“Ned’s been away three days,” said the shoemaker, “but I expect him home soon.”

Mr. Rose made a strange noise in his throat and then, accepting his defeat, set off at a rapid pace in the direction of home. In a marvellously short space of time, considering his age and figure, he was seen returning with Ned Quince, flushed and dishevelled, walking by his side.

“Here he is,” said the farmer. “Now where’s that key?”

Lawyer Quince took his son by the arm and led him into the house, from whence they almost immediately emerged with Ned waving the key.

“I thought it wasn’t far,” said the sapient Mr. Hogg.

Ned put the key in the lock and flinging the door open revealed Celia Rose, blinking and confused in the sudden sunshine. She drew back as she saw her father and began to cry with considerable fervour.

“How did you get in that shed, miss?” demanded her parent, stamping.

“I—I went there,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want to go away.”

“Well, you’d better stay there,” shouted the overwrought Mr. Rose. “I’ve done with you. A girl that ’ud turn against her own father I—I—”

He drove his right fist into his left palm and stamped out into the road. Lawyer Quince and Mr. Hogg, after a moment’s hesitation, followed.

“The laugh’s agin you, farmer,” said the latter gentleman, taking his arm.

Mr. Rose shook him off.

“Better make the best of it,” continued the peace-maker.

“She’s a girl to be proud of,” said Lawyer Quince, keeping pace with the farmer on the other side. “She’s got a head that’s worth yours and mine put together, with Hogg’s thrown in as a little makeweight.”

“And here’s the White Swan,” said Mr. Hogg, who had a hazy idea of a compliment, “and all of us as dry as a bone. Why not all go in and have a glass to shut folks’ mouths?”

“And cry quits,” said the shoemaker.

“And let bygones be bygones,” said Mr. Hogg, taking the farmer’s arm again.

Mr. Rose stopped and shook his head obstinately, and then, under the skilful pilotage of Mr. Hogg, was steered in the direction of the hospitable doors of the White Swan. He made a last bid for liberty on the step and then disappeared inside. Lawyer Quince brought up the rear.

BREAKING A SPELL

“Witchcraft?” said the old man, thoughtfully, as he scratched his scanty whiskers. No, I ain’t heard o’ none in these parts for a long time. There used to be a little of it about when I was a boy, and there was some talk of it arter I’d growed up, but Claybury folk never took much count of it. The last bit of it I remember was about forty years ago, and that wasn’t so much witchcraft as foolishness.

There was a man in this place then—Joe Barlcomb by name—who was a firm believer in it, and ’e used to do all sorts of things to save hisself from it. He was a new-comer in Claybury, and there was such a lot of it about in the parts he came from that the people thought o’ nothing else hardly.

He was a man as got ’imself very much liked at fust, especially by the old ladies, owing to his being so perlite to them, that they used to ’old ’im up for an example to the other men, and say wot nice, pretty ways he ’ad. Joe Barlcomb was everything at fust, but when they got to ’ear that his perliteness was because ’e thought ’arf of ’em was witches, and didn’t know which ’arf, they altered their minds.

In a month or two he was the laughing-stock of the place; but wot was worse to ’im than that was that he’d made enemies of all the old ladies. Some of ’em was free-spoken women, and ’e couldn’t sleep for thinking of the ’arm they might do ’im.

He was terrible uneasy about it at fust, but, as nothing ’appened and he seemed to go on very prosperous-like, ’e began to forget ’is fears, when all of a sudden ’e went ’ome one day and found ’is wife in bed with a broken leg.

She was standing on a broken chair to reach something down from the dresser when it ’appened, and it was pointed out to Joe Barlcomb that it was a thing anybody might ha’ done without being bewitched; but he said ’e knew better, and that they’d kept that broken chair for standing on for years and years to save the others, and nothing ’ad ever ’appened afore.

In less than a week arter that three of his young ’uns was down with the measles, and, ’is wife being laid up, he sent for ’er mother to come and nurse ’em. It’s as true as I sit ’ere, but that pore old lady ’adn’t been in the house two hours afore she went to bed with the yellow jaundice.

Joe Barlcomb went out of ’is mind a’most. He’d never liked ’is wife’s mother, and he wouldn’t ’ave had ’er in the house on’y ’e wanted her to nurse ’is wife and children, and when she came and laid up and wanted waiting on ’e couldn’t dislike her enough.

He was quite certain all along that somebody was putting a spell on ’im, and when ’e went out a morning or two arterward and found ’is best pig lying dead in a corner of the sty he gave up and, going into the ’ouse, told ’em all that they’d ’ave to die ’cause he couldn’t do anything more for ’em. His wife’s mother and ’is wife and the children all started crying together, and Joe Barlcomb, when ’e thought of ’is pig, he sat down and cried too.

He sat up late that night thinking it over, and, arter looking at it all ways, he made up ’is mind to go and see Mrs. Prince, an old lady that lived all alone by ’erself in a cottage near Smith’s farm. He’d set ’er down for wot he called a white witch, which is the best kind and on’y do useful things, such as charming warts away or telling gals about their future ’usbands; and the next arternoon, arter telling ’is wife’s mother that fresh air and travelling was the best cure for the yellow jaundice, he set off to see ’er.

Mrs. Prince was sitting at ’er front door nursing ’er three cats when ’e got there. She was an ugly, little old woman with piercing black eyes and a hook nose, and she ’ad a quiet, artful sort of a way with ’er that made ’er very much disliked. One thing was she was always making fun of people, and for another she seemed to be able to tell their thoughts, and that don’t get anybody liked much, especially when they don’t keep it to theirselves. She’d been a lady’s maid all ’er young days, and it was very ’ard to be taken for a witch just because she was old.

“Fine day, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb.

“Very fine,” ses Mrs. Prince.

“Being as I was passing, I just thought I’d look in,” ses Joe Barlcomb, eyeing the cats.

“Take a chair,” ses Mrs. Prince, getting up and dusting one down with ’er apron.

Joe sat down. “I’m in a bit o’ trouble, ma’am,” he ses, “and I thought p’r’aps as you could help me out of it. My pore pig’s been bewitched, and it’s dead.”

“Bewitched?” ses Mrs. Prince, who’d ’eard of ’is ideas. “Rubbish. Don’t talk to me.”

“It ain’t rubbish, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb; “three o’ my children is down with the measles, my wife’s broke ’er leg, ’er mother is laid up in my little place with the yellow jaundice, and the pig’s dead.”

“Wot, another one?” ses Mrs. Prince.

“No; the same one,” ses Joe.

“Well, ’ow am I to help you?” ses Mrs. Prince. “Do you want me to come and nurse ’em?”

“No, no,” ses Joe, starting and turning pale; “unless you’d like to come and nurse my wife’s mother,” he ses, arter thinking a bit. “I was hoping that you’d know who’d been overlooking me and that you’d make ’em take the spell off.”

Mrs. Prince got up from ’er chair and looked round for the broom she’d been sweeping with, but, not finding it, she set down agin and stared in a curious sort o’ way at Joe Barlcomb.

“Oh, I see,” she ses, nodding. “Fancy you guessing I was a witch.”

“You can’t deceive me,” ses Joe; “I’ve ’ad too much experience; I knew it the fust time I saw you by the mole on your nose.”

Mrs. Prince got up and went into her back-place, trying her ’ardest to remember wot she’d done with that broom. She couldn’t find it anywhere, and at last she came back and sat staring at Joe for so long that ’e was ’arf frightened out of his life. And by-and-by she gave a ’orrible smile and sat rubbing the side of ’er nose with ’er finger.

“If I help you,” she ses at last, “will you promise to keep it a dead secret and do exactly as I tell you? If you don’t, dead pigs’ll be nothing to the misfortunes that you will ’ave.”

“I will,” ses Joe Barlcomb, very pale.

“The spell,” ses Mrs. Prince, holding up her ’ands and shutting ’er eyes, “was put upon you by a man. It is one out of six men as is jealous of you because you’re so clever, but which one it is I can’t tell without your assistance. Have you got any money?”

“A little,” ses Joe, anxious-like—“a very little. Wot with the yellow jaundice and other things, I——”

“Fust thing to do,” ses Mrs. Prince, still with her eyes shut, “you go up to the Cauliflower to-night; the six men’ll all be there, and you must buy six ha’pennies off of them; one each.”

“Buy six ha’pennies?” ses Joe, staring at her.

“Don’t repeat wot I say,” ses Mrs. Prince; “it’s unlucky. You buy six ha’pennies for a shilling each, without saying wot it’s for. You’ll be able to buy ’em all right if you’re civil.”

“It seems to me it don’t need much civility for that,” ses Joe, pulling a long face.

“When you’ve got the ha’pennies,” ses Mrs. Prince, “bring ’em to me and I’ll tell you wot to do with ’em. Don’t lose no time, because I can see that something worse is going to ’appen if it ain’t prevented.”

“Is it anything to do with my wife’s mother getting worse?” ses Joe Barlcomb, who was a careful man and didn’t want to waste six shillings.

“No, something to you,” ses Mrs. Prince.

Joe Barlcomb went cold all over, and then he put down a couple of eggs he’d brought round for ’er and went off ’ome agin, and Mrs. Prince stood in the doorway with a cat on each shoulder and watched ’im till ’e was out of sight.

That night Joe Barlcomb came up to this ’ere Cauliflower public-house, same as he’d been told, and by-and-by, arter he ’ad ’ad a pint, he looked round, and taking a shilling out of ’is pocket put it on the table, and he ses, “Who’ll give me a ha’penny for that?” he ses.

None of ’em seemed to be in a hurry. Bill Jones took it up and bit it, and rang it on the table and squinted at it, and then he bit it agin, and turned round and asked Joe Barlcomb wot was wrong with it.

“Wrong?” ses Joe; “nothing.”

Bill Jones put it down agin. “You’re wide awake, Joe,” he ses, “but so am I.”

“Won’t nobody give me a ha’penny for it?” ses Joe, looking round.

Then Peter Lamb came up, and he looked at it and rang it, and at last he gave Joe a ha’penny for it and took it round, and everybody ’ad a look at it.

“It stands to reason it’s a bad ’un,” ses Bill Jones, “but it’s so well done I wish as I’d bought it.”

“H-s-h!” ses Peter Lamb; “don’t let the landlord ’ear you.”

The landlord ’ad just that moment come in, and Peter walked up and ordered a pint, and took his tenpence change as bold as brass. Arter that Joe Barbcomb bought five more ha’pennies afore you could wink a’most, and every man wot sold one went up to the bar and ’ad a pint and got tenpence change, and drank Joe Barlcomb’s health.

“There seems to be a lot o’ money knocking about to-night,” ses the landlord, as Sam Martin, the last of ’em, was drinking ’is pint.

Sam Martin choked and put ’is pot down on the counter with a bang, and him and the other five was out o’ that door and sailing up the road with their tenpences afore the landlord could get his breath. He stood to the bar scratching his ’ead and staring, but he couldn’t understand it a bit till a man wot was too late to sell his ha’penny up and told ’im all about it. The fuss ’e made was terrible. The shillings was in a little heap on a shelf at the back o’ the bar, and he did all sorts o’ things to ’em to prove that they was bad, and threatened Joe Barlcomb with the police. At last, however, ’e saw wot a fool he was making of himself, and arter nearly breaking his teeth ’e dropped them into a drawer and stirred ’em up with the others.

Joe Barlcomb went round the next night to see Mrs. Prince, and she asked ’im a lot o’ questions about the men as ’ad sold ’im the ha’pennies.

“The fust part ’as been done very well,” she ses, nodding her ’ead at ’im; “if you do the second part as well, you’ll soon know who your enemy is.”

“Nothing’ll bring the pig back,” ses Joe.

“There’s worse misfortunes than that, as I’ve told you,” ses Mrs. Prince, sharply. “Now, listen to wot I’m going to say to you. When the clock strikes twelve to-night——”

“Our clock don’t strike,” ses Joe.

“Then you must borrow one that does,” ses Mrs. Prince, “and when it strikes twelve you must go round to each o’ them six men and sell them a ha’penny for a shilling.”

Joe Barlcomb looked at ’er. “’Ow?” he ses, short-like.

“Same way as you sold ’em a shilling for a ha’-penny,” ses Mrs. Prince; “it don’t matter whether they buy the ha’pennies or not. All you’ve got to do is to go and ask ’em, and the man as makes the most fuss is the man that ’as put the trouble on you.”

“It seems a roundabout way o’ going to work,” ses Joe.

“_Wot!_” screams Mrs. Prince, jumping up and waving her arms about. “_Wot!_ Go your own way; I’ll have nothing more to do with you. And don’t blame me for anything that happens. It’s a very bad thing to come to a witch for advice and then not to do as she tells you. You ought to know that.”

“I’ll do it, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb, trembling.

“You’d better,” ses Mrs. Prince; “and mind—not a word to anybody.”

Joe promised her agin, and ’e went off and borrered a clock from Albert Price, and at twelve o’clock that night he jumped up out of bed and began to dress ’imself and pretend not to ’ear his wife when she asked ’im where he was going.

It was a dark, nasty sort o’ night, blowing and raining, and, o’ course, everybody ’ad gone to bed long since. The fust cottage Joe came to was Bill Jones’s, and, knowing Bill’s temper, he stood for some time afore he could make up ’is mind to knock; but at last he up with ’is stick and banged away at the door.

A minute arterward he ’eard the bedroom winder pushed open, and then Bill Jones popped his ’ead out and called to know wot was the matter and who it was.

“It’s me—Joe Barlcomb,” ses Joe, “and I want to speak to you very partikler.”

“Well, speak away,” ses Bill. “You go into the back room,” he ses, turning to his wife.

“Whaffor?” ses Mrs. Jones.

“’Cos I don’t know wot Joe is going to say,” ses Bill. “You go in now, afore I make you.”

His wife went off grumbling, and then Bill told Joe Barlcomb to hurry up wot he’d got to say as ’e ’adn’t got much on and the weather wasn’t as warm as it might be.

“I sold you a shilling for a ha’penny last night, Bill,” ses Joe.

“Do you want to sell any more?” ses Bill Jones, putting his ’and down to where ’is trouser pocket ought to be.

“Not exactly that,” ses Joe Barlcomb. “This time I want you to sell me a shilling for a ha’penny.”

Bill leaned out of the winder and stared down at Joe Barlcomb, and then he ses, in a choking voice, “Is that wot you’ve come disturbing my sleep for at this time o’ night?” he ses.

“I must ’ave it, Bill,” ses Joe.

“Well, if you’ll wait a moment,” ses Bill, trying to speak perlitely, “I’ll come down and give it to you.”

Joe didn’t like ’is tone of voice, but he waited, and all of a sudden Bill Jones came out o’ that door like a gun going off and threw ’imself on Joe Barlcomb. Both of ’em was strong men, and by the time they’d finished they was so tired they could ’ardly stand. Then Bill Jones went back to bed, and Joe Barlcomb, arter sitting down on the doorstep to rest ’imself, went off and knocked up Peter Lamb.

Peter Lamb was a little man and no good as a fighter, but the things he said to Joe Barlcomb as he leaned out o’ the winder and shook ’is fist at him was ’arder to bear than blows. He screamed away at the top of ’is voice for ten minutes, and then ’e pulled the winder to with a bang and went back to bed.

Joe Barlcomb was very tired, but he walked on to Jasper Potts’s ’ouse, trying ’ard as he walked to decide which o’ the fust two ’ad made the most fuss. Arter he ’ad left Jasper Potts ’e got more puzzled than ever, Jasper being just as bad as the other two, and Joe leaving ’im at last in the middle of loading ’is gun.

By the time he’d made ’is last call—at Sam Martin’s—it was past three o’clock, and he could no more tell Mrs. Prince which ’ad made the most fuss than ’e could fly. There didn’t seem to be a pin to choose between ’em, and, ’arf worried out of ’is life, he went straight on to Mrs. Prince and knocked ’er up to tell ’er. She thought the ’ouse was afire at fust, and came screaming out o’ the front door in ’er bedgown, and when she found out who it was she was worse to deal with than the men ’ad been.

She ’ad quieted down by the time Joe went round to see ’er the next evening, and asked ’im to describe exactly wot the six men ’ad done and said. She sat listening quite quiet at fust, but arter a time she scared Joe by making a odd, croupy sort o’ noise in ’er throat, and at last she got up and walked into the back-place. She was there a long time making funny noises, and at last Joe walked toward the door on tip-toe and peeped through the crack and saw ’er in a sort o’ fit, sitting in a chair with ’er arms folded acrost her bodice and rocking ’erself up and down and moaning. Joe stood as if ’e’d been frozen a’most, and then ’e crept back to ’is seat and waited, and when she came into the room agin she said as the trouble ’ad all been caused by Bill Jones. She sat still for nearly ’arf an hour, thinking ’ard, and then she turned to Joe and ses:

“Can you read?” she ses.

“No,” ses Joe, wondering wot was coming next.

“That’s all right, then,” she ses, “because if you could I couldn’t do wot I’m going to do.”

“That shows the ’arm of eddication,” ses Joe. “I never did believe in it.”

Mrs. Prince nodded, and then she went and got a bottle with something in it which looked to Joe like gin, and arter getting out ’er pen and ink and printing some words on a piece o’ paper she stuck it on the bottle, and sat looking at Joe and thinking.

“Take this up to the Cauliflower,” she ses, “make friends with Bill Jones, and give him as much beer as he’ll drink, and give ’im a little o’ this gin in each mug. If he drinks it the spell will be broken, and you’ll be luckier than you ’ave ever been in your life afore. When ’e’s drunk some, and not before, leave the bottle standing on the table.”

Joe Barlcomb thanked ’er, and with the bottle in ’is pocket went off to the Cauliflower, whistling. Bill Jones was there, and Peter Lamb, and two or three more of ’em, and at fust they said some pretty ’ard things to him about being woke up in the night.

“Don’t bear malice, Bill,” ses Joe Barlcomb; “’ave a pint with me.”

He ordered two pints, and then sat down along-side o’ Bill, and in five minutes they was like brothers.

“’Ave a drop o’ gin in it, Bill,” he ses, taking the bottle out of ’is pocket.

Bill thanked ’im and had a drop, and then, thoughtful-like, he wanted Joe to ’ave some in his too, but Joe said no, he’d got a touch o’ toothache, and it was bad for it.

“I don’t mind ’aving a drop in my beer, Joe,” ses Peter Lamb.

“Not to-night, mate,” ses Joe; “it’s all for Bill. I bought it on purpose for ’im.”

Bill shook ’ands with him, and when Joe called for another pint and put some more gin in it he said that ’e was the noblest-’arted man that ever lived.

“You wasn’t saying so ’arf an hour ago,” ses Peter Lamb.

“’Cos I didn’t know ’im so well then,” ses Bill Jones.

“You soon change your mind, don’t you?” ses Peter.

Bill didn’t answer ’im. He was leaning back on the bench and staring at the bottle as if ’e couldn’t believe his eyesight. His face was all white and shining, and ’is hair as wet as if it ’ad just been dipped in a bucket o’ water.

“See a ghost, Bill?” ses Peter, looking at ’im.

Bill made a ’orrible noise in his throat, and kept on staring at the bottle till they thought ’e’d gone crazy. Then Jasper Potts bent his ’ead down and began to read out loud wot was on the bottle. “P-o-i—POISON FOR BILL JONES,” he ses, in a voice as if ’e couldn’t believe it.

You might ’ave heard a pin drop. Everybody turned and looked at Bill Jones, as he sat there trembling all over. Then those that could read took up the bottle and read it out loud all over agin.

“Pore Bill,” ses Peter Lamb. “I ’ad a feeling come over me that something was wrong.”

“You’re a murderer,” ses Sam Martin, catching ’old of Joe Barlcomb. “You’ll be ’ung for this. Look at pore Bill, cut off in ’is prime.”

“Run for the doctor,” ses someone.

Two of ’em ran off as ’ard as they could go, and then the landlord came round the bar and asked Bill to go and die outside, because ’e didn’t want to be brought into it. Jasper Potts told ’im to clear off, and then he bent down and asked Bill where the pain was.

“I don’t think he’ll ’ave much pain,” ses Peter Lamb, who always pretended to know a lot more than other people. “It’ll soon be over, Bill.”

“We’ve all got to go some day,” ses Sam Martin. “Better to die young than live to be a trouble to yourself,” ses Bob Harris.

To ’ear them talk everybody seemed to think that Bill Jones was in luck; everybody but Bill Jones ’imself, that is.

“I ain’t fit to die,” he ses, shivering. “You don’t know ’ow bad I’ve been.”

“Wot ’ave you done, Bill?” ses Peter Lamb, in a soft voice. “If it’ll ease your feelings afore you go to make a clean breast of it, we’re all friends here.”

Bill groaned.

“And it’s too late for you to be punished for anything,” ses Peter, arter a moment.

Bill Jones groaned agin, and then, shaking ’is ’ead, began to w’isper ’is wrong-doings. When the doctor came in ’arf an hour arterward all the men was as quiet as mice, and pore Bill was still w’ispering as ’ard as he could w’isper.

The doctor pushed ’em out of the way in a moment, and then ’e bent over Bill and felt ’is pulse and looked at ’is tongue. Then he listened to his ’art, and in a puzzled way smelt at the bottle, which Jasper Potts was a-minding of, and wetted ’is finger and tasted it.

“Somebody’s been making a fool of you and me too,” he ses, in a angry voice. “It’s only gin, and very good gin at that. Get up and go home.”

It all came out next morning, and Joe Barlcomb was the laughing-stock of the place. Most people said that Mrs. Prince ’ad done quite right, and they ’oped that it ud be a lesson to him, but nobody ever talked much of witchcraft in Claybury agin. One thing was that Bill Jones wouldn’t ’ave the word used in ’is hearing.

ESTABLISHING RELATIONS

Mr. Richard Catesby, second officer of the ss. _Wizard_, emerged from the dock-gates in high good-humour to spend an evening ashore. The bustle of the day had departed, and the inhabitants of Wapping, in search of coolness and fresh air, were sitting at open doors and windows indulging in general conversation with anybody within earshot.

Mr. Catesby, turning into Bashford’s Lane, lost in a moment all this life and colour. The hum of distant voices certainly reached there, but that was all, for Bashford’s Lane, a retiring thoroughfare facing a blank dock wall, capped here and there by towering spars, set an example of gentility which neighbouring streets had long ago decided crossly was impossible for ordinary people to follow. Its neatly grained shutters, fastened back by the sides of the windows, gave a pleasing idea of uniformity, while its white steps and polished brass knockers were suggestive of almost a Dutch cleanliness.

Mr. Catesby, strolling comfortably along, stopped suddenly for another look at a girl who was standing in the ground-floor window of No. 5. He went on a few paces and then walked back slowly, trying to look as though he had forgotten something. The girl was still there, and met his ardent glances unmoved: a fine girl, with large, dark eyes, and a complexion which was the subject of much scandalous discussion among neighbouring matrons.

“It must be something wrong with the glass, or else it’s the bad light,” said Mr. Catesby to himself; “no girl is so beautiful as that.”

He went by again to make sure. The object of his solicitude was still there and apparently unconscious of his existence. He passed very slowly and sighed deeply.

“You’ve got it at last, Dick Catesby,” he said, solemnly; “fair and square in the most dangerous part of the heart. It’s serious this time.”

He stood still on the narrow pavement, pondering, and then, in excuse of his flagrant misbehaviour, murmured, “It was meant to be,” and went by again. This time he fancied that he detected a somewhat supercilious expression in the dark eyes—a faint raising of well-arched eyebrows.

His engagement to wait at Aldgate Station for the second-engineer and spend an evening together was dismissed as too slow to be considered. He stood for some time in uncertainty, and then turning slowly into the Beehive, which stood at the corner, went into the private bar and ordered a glass of beer.

He was the only person in the bar, and the landlord, a stout man in his shirt-sleeves, was the soul of affability. Mr. Catesby, after various general remarks, made a few inquiries about an uncle aged five minutes, whom he thought was living in Bashford’s Lane.

“I don’t know ’im,” said the landlord.

“I had an idea that he lived at No. 5,” said Catesby.

The landlord shook his head. “That’s Mrs. Truefitt’s house,” he said, slowly.

Mr. Catesby pondered. “Truefitt, Truefitt,” he repeated; “what sort of a woman is she?”

“Widder-woman,” said the landlord; “she lives there with ’er daughter Prudence.”

Mr. Catesby said “Indeed!” and being a good listener learned that Mrs. Truefitt was the widow of a master-lighterman, and that her son, Fred Truefitt, after an absence of seven years in New Zealand, was now on his way home. He finished his glass slowly and, the landlord departing to attend to another customer, made his way into the street again.

He walked along slowly, picturing as he went the home-coming of the long-absent son. Things were oddly ordered in this world, and Fred Truefitt would probably think nothing of his brotherly privileges. He wondered whether he was like Prudence. He wondered——

“By Jove, I’ll do it!” he said, recklessly, as he turned. “Now for a row.”

He walked back rapidly to Bashford’s Lane, and without giving his courage time to cool plied the knocker of No. 5 briskly.

The door was opened by an elderly woman, thin, and somewhat querulous in expression. Mr. Catesby had just time to notice this, and then he flung his arm round her waist, and hailing her as “Mother!” saluted her warmly.

The faint scream of the astounded Mrs. Truefitt brought her daughter hastily into the passage. Mr. Catesby’s idea was ever to do a thing thoroughly, and, relinquishing Mrs. Truefitt, he kissed Prudence with all the ardour which a seven-years’ absence might be supposed to engender in the heart of a devoted brother. In return he received a box on the ears which made his head ring.

“He’s been drinking,” gasped the dismayed Mrs. Truefitt.

“Don’t you know me, mother?” inquired Mr. Richard Catesby, in grievous astonishment.

“He’s mad,” said her daughter.

“Am I so altered that _you_ don’t know me, Prudence?” inquired Mr. Catesby; with pathos. “Don’t you know your Fred?”

“Go out,” said Mrs. Truefitt, recovering; “go out at once.”

Mr. Catesby looked from one to the other in consternation.

“I know I’ve altered,” he said, at last, “but I’d no idea—”

“If you don’t go out at once I’ll send for the police,” said the elder woman, sharply. “Prudence, scream!”

“I’m not going to scream,” said Prudence, eyeing the intruder with great composure. “I’m not afraid of him.”